Pastel Macarons

| Victims Of Typewriters |

| Victims of Typewriters | U n e d i t e d

University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia

Fall 2013

T R I S T A N

Sunday 8:30 P.M.

Piece #45

Coffee and Cigarettes

❝ He loved her like

Adam had Eve;

and Romeo had Juliet.

He loved her simply.

It was pure and true.

But

she loved him like

an addict would his drugs;

or an alcoholic would his liquor.

She didn't love him simply.

She was hooked on to his love

for her;

high on the idea of having someone

to love her.

The boy, in the end,

was nothing but

her coffee and cigarettes.

And eventually,

She quit him. ❞

- T. D. †

With seemingly great effort, the clunky type-bars let out a clacking sound as the last letter was printed onto the partially crumpled and tea-drenched sheet of paper. That particular finishing note always conferred upon Tristan Delacroix a distinct sense of accomplishment. He quite enjoyed the sounds that typewriters made. They were sounds associated with him spilling his thoughts - like fluid ink.

A beam of light orange juice rolled through the lamp's spout and soaked the paper and the carpet. Everything else had been stained by the night's moonlight. Tristan was feeling especially 'poetic' that night but never would have admitted it to himself. Just in the vibe, he'd tell Ryan if he were to ask later.

He looked at his piece again, his eyes sweeping the page for errors - before posting its photographed face on ThreeAMTypewriter.com. Within hours, he would receive an order for about ten original copies of it.

An unhinging door could be heard, followed by the switching on of the lights and the sight of his sullen-looking roommate, Ryan Taylor's frowning face. Tristan watched him as Ryan roughly swung his backpack across the room, into a week-old pile of unwashed clothes. With a heavy thud, he dramatically fell on his bed and drew on a steeper frown on his face.

"Ryan, sulking over a girl-"

"Don't. I really don't think I have it in me to hear the 'bro talk', mate. If sulking's going to make me get over her, I bloody well will, okay?"

Tristan put his hands up, defensively.

"Sorry," Ryan uttered (sounding almost exhausted). "I saw her at Joe's today and she just avoided me like I was the bloody plague or something." He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling... Reminiscing.

Tristan sighed and swiveled on his chair, facing his familiar MacBook screen. Two orders for 'Coffee and Cigarettes' had been placed already - by Sawyer Ness and Faye Hughes - his regular customers who had purchased most of his previous pieces. He fed in the treated sheets and began to type until the clicking sounds had rhythmically settled in on the room like fine dust.